


Cognitive Capture: A Study

by YogurtTime



Category: Johnny's Entertainment, KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Kame being maudlin, Koki's upsetting sex life, M/M, armchair psychology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2019-01-15 07:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12316416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: Nakamaru the glue that holds the strings of his band together listens and offers advice based on what he sees, but he can’t always see everything.





	Cognitive Capture: A Study

**Author's Note:**

> Plot loosely based on various fan reports of the previous year translated and posted here: http://konoaida.livejournal.com/27177.html

 

 

 

“Yucchi, you got a moment? There’s something I gotta tell you…”

Actually, ‘Yucchi’ is quite ready to go home. Koki sits down in the stiff sofa across from him anyway, tapping his foot. Nakamaru does a quick sweep of Koki’s overall bearing—eyes, colouring, skin condition, posture; he looks well-rested and generally healthy. Comforting though that is…

“Sure,” he murmurs, perching on the edge of the sofa and resting his hands on his knees. The bright lights over the mirrors buzz through a considering silence. The room still smells like burning metal irons and hairspray and in the corner table: a sigh and an open comic book.

Koki looks him in the eye for a darting moment before dropping his gaze abruptly—Nakamaru speculates this is going to be one of those sessions that leave him both hot around the collar and flushing out images with repeated watchings of his favourite historical air strike mission circa 1940...

“Just to warn you beforehand,” Koki coughs, rubbing his palms over his jeans. “It’s about my sex life again.”

Nakamaru sighs.

He doesn’t consider himself the guru of any hidden knowledge on surviving the celebrity experience. An idol’s responsibilities have never really extended to dissecting problems and offering up solutions. And KAT-TUN as a band has had its quality share of problems to dissect. Laying aside, at present, the really big issues—the fights, their debut, and that goddamn split all spoken for and dealt with under tedious circumstances— Nakamaru was there for the little things as well. He was there the fourth time Koki tried to quit smoking; he was there when Taguchi moved apartments and was concerned about a bathroom cupboard haunting; he was especially present for Kame’s intervention—a certain matter they’ve never spoken of since (mainly the ever-aggravating manner by which he kept inserting the word, ‘Dance!’ right before their, well, already quite obvious dance breaks).

He can’t remember when Nakamaru the counsellor-at-will became a thing, but he does know that after eleven years of this, he is the sole trustee of the most intimate knowledge regarding four other men the pop world would know as artists, performers, talents, and, to wit, the most pathologically disturbed assemblage of people Nakamaru has ever met.

“So I’m guessing you finally met someone?”

Koki grimaces. “Well, yeah, I guess, kinda—that doesn’t matter— it’s been going on for about two months now. And it’s like we’d be all right; we have the same interests and—OK, let me just cut to the chase.”

“Please,” Nakamaru returned.

“So we had sex in an alleyway last week.”

“Good _god_ , Koki…”

“It was a roleplay thing!” Koki exclaims, waving his hands. “I don’t know; we started it on a whim and it was sort of exciting, you know. That whole predator and prey—“

“ _Thank you_. I get the picture,” Nakamaru interjects firmly. “Aside from the obvious, what’s the issue?”

Koki glances off to Nakamaru’s right. “It isn’t normal; I’m beginning to think that this is my only option, that…they’re the only one who’s going to get me, but it’s a trade-off for these weird things we end up doing...”

So it’s that. Nakamaru nods as he finally sits back. “Look, if you know you have it in you to accept the weird things about them and they accept all of your ‘quirks’—well, if I know you, you must have _already_ learned somewhere along the way that giving up what makes you happy isn’t worth just being normal.”

Koki sits in an inspired moment of clarity; a thoughtful moue curving his lips. “Yeah…”

There is always that sense of quiet accomplishment when one of his bandmates leaves the room after actually taking his advice to heart. Nakamaru smiles and glances over at the table by the window. A comic book lies face down and fingers with rough knuckles slide off the surface when their owner stands.

He is so much more apparent in the room than the buzz of the lights over their mirrors and the orange sunset slipping through the blinds. “You never seemed like the type,” Ueda remarks as he turns toward his bag.

Nakamaru starts to gather his things. He feels that ended better than it usually does with Koki. “The type to what?” he prompts. still smiling.

“But now that I think about it, it makes sense.”

He turns to look at Ueda at this, but Ueda is still occupied, bent over his bag. The shock of his black hair curves an arc over his nape. How he slouches so that the ridges of his back poke through his t-shirt reminds Nakamaru of glass somehow; just that portion of him. “What does?”

Ueda tucks his comic book in the front pocket of his bag and twists, giving Nakamaru a glimpse of him under a fringe of razor-sharp black. “You’ve never _actually_ given up anything that makes you happy, have you?”

Nakamaru watches him, briefly, before he shrugs. “I just wouldn’t see the point.”

Ueda turns, slinging his bag over his arm/ and smiles at last. Nakamaru watches it; how it appears; bright and complete. “I probably wouldn’t forgive you if you did,” Ueda says. “God, I’m hungry.”

In Nakamaru’s opinion, Ueda might be the only stable one among them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

Kamenashi’s apartment’s décor is an amalgamation of gifts and objects; representations of the phases of his life. Alone within the stretching walls of a high-security, well-customized apartment, he lives like that rare man of twenty-six that’s lived a five for each year.

Nakamaru holds a glass of water over his lap as he sits under a long line of sepia photographs depicting views out the windows of trains. Kame stretches out sideways on his sectional sofa, legs tucked behind him as he rests his head on his propped up fist. He looks tired; he _always_ looks tired enough that Nakamaru has to scan for other tells and find the warning for what he’s about to hear.

“When’s the last time you could say you made friends with someone?” Kame asks him.

There are a lot of clocks in this room. Face clocks; the kind you could only ever get as a gift. No one walks into a store to purchase a clock with hands in the shape of pencils. Certainly not Kame. He’s perched it on the top of a shelf of magazines.

Well, time can be everything.

Nakamaru takes a sip of his water. “What kind of friends?” he asks.

“Close friends. People you talk to, people you want to hang out with every chance you get; the sort of person that makes the moment when work is done seem…not such a disappointing thing.”

Nakamaru never addresses Kame’s idiosyncrasies; they all know them well enough to know that he doesn’t like them to be pointed out. This includes the machinations of his logic. “I would say years ago then.”

Kame frowns and stares at a spot on his coffee table quite briefly. “It figures,” is all he says by way of reply.

He doesn’t think the pencil clock has any batteries in it. “What’s this about?”

“I can’t connect with people anymore,” Kame tells him succinctly. It’s worse than a floodgate; it’s that golden moment every time Nakamaru gets him talking where he wanders into an overflow. It’s the least he can do for Kame. “Ninety percent of the time my head’s in my work. I haven’t kept a girlfriend in ages and I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever be with anyone, even if it’s just someone who understands.”

Nakamaru squints; seems difficult to focus in on Kame when he’s being this painfully honest. “The idea of connecting with anyone isn’t something just for young people,” he tells him. “Meeting someone you connect with is sort of also like getting to understand yourself through them and it’s possible you’re still getting to know yourself.”

Kame fixes his narrow, reading stare on him. “I know who I am. I know a person is supposed to be their interests and right now, I am mine.”

Nakamaru offers a grim smile. “Baseball?”

“Mm, no.”

“…Wine?”

Kame sits up, resting an arm on the back of his sofa. “I’ve started a...different sort of collection.”

Something about this makes Nakamaru pull back somewhat; perhaps it’s the look in Kame’s already sharp stare—the way those eyes dart a bit too frenetically to his linen closet. Nakamaru has an abrupt moment of regret; coming here alone.

Kame’s leaning forward now. “It’s distinct because it’s so _different_ ; it’s not a respectable collection just yet, but I’m working my way towards it. People can’t appreciate what I’ve gathered; well, not the living anyway.”

Nakamaru sets his glass of water down and adjusts his cuffs; he coughs lightly before saying in the most delicate tone. “Kame, _tell_ me there aren’t human remains in that closet. It’s been a very long week.”

Kame’s response to this is to look mildly affronted. “You think with my schedule this year I’d have the _time_?” he demands.

“Well…” Nakamaru doesn’t know much about minute counts for murder.

“Vases, Nakamaru, _vases_ ,” Kame reports soundly.

“Hmm,” says Nakamaru and Kame smiles at him.

This particular non-reply lands Nakamaru an afternoon as sole audience member to a lecture on the typology of Greek vase shapes.

By the time Kame starts in on the Red-figure archaic period, Nakamaru has already resolved to find Kame a proper friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

A long time ago, Ueda told him he didn’t know how to be alone and Nakamaru would normally resolve to fix that; solutions come in thoughtful packages after all. With time, and as he’s come to know him, simply never leaving him alone just seemed the easier option. It isn’t enabling. It can’t be.

Ueda’s fingertips are slick because he tears each piece of garlic bread before he bites. He pokes a pink tongue out the corner of his lips when the waitress sets another basket in front of them; a rakish smile like Nakamaru is in on his private joke.

Nakamaru blinks at the tea candle floating in a short bowl of water between them. The restaurant is absurdly warm.

“Do you happen to know anyone who collects vases,” he mutters across the table at him. “Or at least someone who knows enough about them that they’d get excited about someone _else_ that collects them?”

Ueda bites his lower lip before he laughs; low. It makes Nakamaru think of guitar strings, stretched taut. “No, I don’t hang out with losers,” is his reply.

Apart from everything else, Nakamaru feels a sudden shameless gratification. Vanity can be healthy now and then. “Good to know.”

The candlelight casts a shadow like sunset over Ueda’s jawline when he looks off with that grin. “What kind of world are you saving this time?” he queries with renewed interest.

Nakamaru shrugs. “Kame thinks he isn’t capable of connecting with anyone.”

Ueda’s plate comes first. A Tiger shrimp Pescatore in a light vodka sauce that Nakamaru ordered because he knows Ueda would like that. “You can put anything in a vase,” Ueda states, rolling the noodles on his fork. “Even fantasies.”

Nakamaru thinks that borderlines on lackadaisical, but he loses his train of thought because Ueda reaches over and dusts a crumb/something off his arm.

“These places; they make the tables so narrow,” he gathers himself enough to say. “D’you have enough room? I could ask to have us moved.”

Ueda just gives him A Look—eyes bright like liquid metal-- before forking up a mouthful. He chews and drops his gaze to his plate while Nakamaru attempts to mentally regroup.

“What does it even mean, connecting with people?” Nakamaru asks, long after his own plate arrives. “It can’t be as simple as ‘love’ or even liking.”

Ueda’s hair has gotten so long that the way he brushes it when it’s not gelled has the highlighted-strands curving just so around his cheekbones. “I guess…” he begins, pausing to swallow. “…it’s when someone sees you… exactly when you see them.”

Perhaps that’s why Kame had to ask him first, Nakamaru thinks. Something about all this has got to be contagious over time.

“I’m going to order a drink,” Ueda moves on. “You’ll drive, won’t you?”

Nakamaru nods numbly, contemplating his own uncertainty about this problem. He wonders mildly if it’s really just a matter of shared interests and obsessions or if it can be as basic as seeing someone else the very moment that you see them.

On this night, Ueda stays over and Nakamaru stands in the doorway of his bedroom, looking out at the curve of a naked back, watching shoulder blades shift with each intake of breath; he’s at home on Nakamaru’s sofa. He supposes now Ueda would understand connection more than he does because Nakamaru _sees_ him and he still feels lonely.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So I took your advice,” Koki tells him. It’s on a Monday; mid dance rehearsal. Nakamaru would later remember the day because it would be this conversation that would absolutely ruin the rest of his week.

“Oh?” He can see the others in the mirror behind them, cooling off before they start from the top and Koki’s eyes rest on him in the reflection beside him. Beyond that, Ueda glances over; a sweeping look and he could simply have just been responding to _something else_ besides Nakamaru’s voice.

“About accepting the weird little things, you know, because I think I could be happy, but…”

Nakamaru turns and leans against the mirror to look directly at Koki or the floor; _anywhere_ else. “What is it?”

“Well, last night something _really_ weird went down.”

It takes a great deal of self-control for Nakamaru not to stop him right there. When did problems of self-possession extend to odd sex acts in—or out of—the bedroom? Nakamaru tries a compromise. “You mean _too_ weird or is this just another location issue?”

Koki grins at him for that. “No…” he mutters, twisting around to check that the others are far enough. “Well, we were in bed doing the usual—right, you don’t like details—“

“I doubt anyone does.”

“—well, I was facing the end of the bed anyway so obviously I wasn’t expecting it, but then again we do sometimes talk…” Koki flushes a superior sort of red. “We talk dirty—you know, spur of the moment stuff.”

Nakamaru wishes completely to die, but he gestures vaguely for Koki to go on. He is aware, fundamentally, that Koki does come to him for the reason that he listens and that is worth everything.

“Th-there was a series of questions. Lots of the good stuff; asking me if I—if I like it like this or …or like that…”

Nakamaru grips the steel bar lining the mirror behind him with both hands; can feel it hurting his palms. “Koki, please,” he mumbles, mortified.

“Right, right, so _completely_ out of nowhere, he goes, ‘Who’s your daddy?’ and _that_ took me out of it right away and I didn’t know what to say…”

Nakamaru isn’t at all sure where to begin with this one. He realises how problematic it’d be to mention to Koki now of all times that he’d been picturing a woman all this time. Now each tale is juxtaposed with the concept that Koki isn’t fumbling around for the sake of another one of his eccentric and vivacious AV film stars. Or even that perhaps he is. So many questions he needs to ask…

Koki steps forward and leans on the metal bar, resting his forehead on the mirror. “So, yeah, I took your advice. I went with it. I told him he was…I told him he was my daddy.”

He only remembers to close his mouth when Koki continues, spurred merely by Nakamaru’s wide-eyed expression.

“I thought that was it; that I’d passed. Then he asks me again. And again. And then _again_! I had no choice but to answer each time!” Koki hisses, probably about as red as Nakamaru would be if he weren’t absolutely sure all the blood in his body has since gone white.

The choreographer looks like she’s about to end their break and Nakamaru knows he’d better wrap this up or else he’ll have to listen to this once they’ve hit the showers. “Koki, you need balance. If any of it is too much for you, you mustn’t feel obligated to bend over backwar—umm, to make _concessions_ for their sake.”

Koki shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you. The problem isn’t that he gets carried away with his kinks and that; it’s the fact that…Yucchi, while I was answering him, I-I maybe sort of started to like it?”

“ _So why are we discussing this_?!” If his tone hadn’t hit a piercing note on its own, he might have barked it.

Koki looks suddenly frustrated. “Because, what if it’s not me? What if he’s just changing me? What if I turn into this—I don’t know—strange deviant just for him.”

The choreographer waves them over and Nakamaru shuts his eyes. “I… I’ll get back to you on that after practice!” he says swiftly, fleeing toward the others.

When he’s cleared his head somewhat and motivates himself by using every conviction behind his friendship with Koki, he ends up sending Koki a mail while he’s walking briskly through the parking lot toward his car.

**[Everyone is changed by the people they get involved with, but altogether the person you access when you’re with them has been there all along. Like I told you before, you only have to worry about whether it makes you happiest and no matter what anyone tells you, happiness is a unique experience.]**

Koki replies two days afterward. [ **Then I’m happy** ,] he says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nakamaru tells Ueda about it while they’re listening to a playback. Ueda pauses the player and laughs with so much abandon that he nearly chokes from it. Nakamaru has to rap sharply on his back a couple times, but Ueda’s chortles go on until he begins to sob. He doubles up, almost in sheer pain as he gasps.

“It just gets funnier the more I think about it,” Ueda finally moans, holding his stomach as he glances up through wet eyelashes.

Nakamaru looks away. “I don’t find it very funny.”

Ueda falls into a languid chuckle, leaning back in his chair so it creaks. Out of the corner of his eye, Nakamaru sees him wipe at his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh come _on_ , don’t tell me you or anyone you’ve been with hasn’t said anything so awkward during sex that it’s funny; it’s almost a universal thing.”

It feels like a furnace; the heat that climbs the back of his neck. “It’s not really-- I mean no one has…I don’t believe there’s been an opportunity for conversation during, that is…hmm,” he splutters out articulately.

Ueda’s chair swivels and he rests his elbows on the sound table behind him, cocking his head as he smiles at Nakamaru. “Oh _really_?” he states, mouth curved up in something like a mixture of awe and mocking all at once with his eyebrows practically up to his hairline. “Struck them all speechless, did you?”

Nakamaru frowns because otherwise he’d have to hide his face altogether. “Putting that aside,” he begins sternly and Ueda’s grin goes rather impish. “Why would _anyone_ feel the need to ask that; moreover, why ask something like that over and over? It’s got to have some sort of deep-seated motive behind it. Power? Control?”

“Security?” Ueda cuts in; his smile is still there, but it’s softened. “Ha Ha, the idea of being someone’s ‘daddy’ aside, asking something like that could be as plain as asking a person if they love you.”

Nakamaru considers this, frown still in place. “You mean to confirm if that’s the way that they see you?”

“Yep,” Ueda replies, eyes casting up to the ceiling thoughtfully. “It’d arm the connection; make you feel secure. Sex can be like that. Especially with the right person; you wanna see yourself the way they see you in that moment. It’s a universal turn-on, isn’t it?”

He isn’t sure how best to answer that without wanting to melt right into the floor. So Nakamaru shrugs.

Ueda abruptly sits up and swivels the chair around again. He ducks his head when he switches the player back on.

“God, but I’d hate to ask that of someone.” Nakamaru murmurs contemplatively moments later; still caught in that headspace.

Ueda, currently drumming his fingers like he has piano keys in front of him, looks his way again. “What?”

The volume is low enough that they can speak in this undertone; for Nakamaru, it seems most of their conversations are soft-spoken as if the moment Ueda opens his mouth, everything in Nakamaru’s sphere dims to a faint hum. “To ask someone if they loved me.”

Ueda raises a hand, shakes his sleeve out of the way and rests his cheek in his palm as he regards Nakamaru in his usual manner. “You wouldn’t want to be asked either though, right?”

Nakamaru nods. “It’d feel too much like I’ve just been given an excuse to say it.”

Ueda twists so he’s facing him, giving him something like a sardonic look. “Then you really ought to just say it on your own.”

Nakamaru has done the relationship thing; more or less. He’s never felt drawn to say it and no one has ever prompted him. Just the thought alone sounds shocking. “Just like that?”

Ueda looks at him—with a startling expression of challenge like the inked paintings of old iconoclasts, just lingering indulgently on a thought he seems incapable of sharing. “Of course. It’s always better to say it, then you’re not forcing anything, then it’s simple. Scary, but it’s really just so goddamn simple.”

Nakamaru wonders if Ueda’s ever said it to anyone. He can’t picture it.

He can very well picture the person that says it to Ueda; he can picture them pouring out words and tears, thesaurus references just to cover all bases and convey what he’s done to them, _does_ to them. He pictures the soul-baring agony of that scary, simple act bleeding ‘I love you, I love you, I love you,’ and then... and _then_ Nakamaru can see, with an almost vicious oracle clarity, Ueda shooting them his usual side-eye complete with a perfect smile only to say in return:

_“Not you.”_

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough,” Nakamaru admits.

When Nakamaru was beyond terrified to bungee jump, Ueda went for him. It isn’t enabling; it can’t be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The roaring of a crowd pre-concert is an injection of adrenaline. That moment, staff racing around them as every performer gathers; his band mates, the backdancers, and the musicians; all hands center. Each one of them is switched on and Nakamaru trembles every time these seconds draw near. Even when the cheer is over, he breaks away, riddled with nerves.

One of the stage crew leads him to his position on the stage lift. The crowd still chatters and the lights haven’t gone off yet.

“Nakamaru,” Kame mutters at him from the other side of a metal divider.

“Mm?” he says, trying best to keep his breathing.

 _”Five minutes”_ the stage hand behind them calls and the words echo across the stretch of their line.

“One of my vases broke this morning.”

Nakamaru can see the lights go dim and the intro shakes the stadium. “Kame, is this really the time—“

“We have five minutes; I just need to get this out before we go out there,” Kame hisses at him; Nakamaru can see the tips of his hair over the divider. “Please.”

“All right,” Nakamaru hisses back hurriedly. “All right, what happened?”

“It was a new one; bought it from a collector overseas; probably worth close to five million yen. I was holding it, just looking. I dropped it.”

Nakamaru leans back around the divider and meets Kame’s gaze, bright-eyed and excitable. “Accidentally?” he asks.

Kame shakes his head, looking back out at the lights and the reflection of the audience from the screen playing their introduction. “I tried to convince myself it was at first, but the more I think about it, the more I’m aware that I let it slip out of my fingers…”

One of the staff calls, “ _Two minutes_!”

“What…what was going through your mind when that happened?”

“I don’t know,” Kame says and he has to call it over the music. “Maybe I wanted to feel loss.”

Their last minute ticks by with the fans howling for them; the only thing Nakamaru can think of is Ueda asking him if he had ever actually given up anything that made him happy. He’d told him he didn’t at all see the point, but after what Kame’s said he knows there would be. Loss. In their line of work, there is only the short list of emotions at their disposal and for Nakamaru, he couldn’t say he’s felt anything so dramatic as that. And if he ever wanted to construct it himself…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KAT-TUN has a series of running gags at their disposal; most of them are at Nakamaru’s expense, but recently, there’s been something of a revolution on that front and for once, Nakamaru feels he’s actually able to deflect and that it’s somewhat well-received.

It isn’t a concept up for much argument and Nakamaru is well-adjusted to it. They _must_ have a target. Sometimes it’s carried on a whim and sometimes it’s a funny conversation carried over from their dressing room; either way, they’re all supposed to know the score.

There were early days; Koki and a few others used to make jokes about Ueda all the time. There was the thing about his looks; supposed fragility; his ability to dish, but never take and Nakamaru never found it all that interesting especially not when he was the one who had to take everything and deal with each short diatribe accordingly. But that’s different; they are told too often to make the distinction; camera and off-camera; reality and entertainment.

So now, though; now they’re on stage and the audience is one big mass of love. Ueda is excitable and he stands just opposite Nakamaru with the lights practically worshipping him, making his black hair seem to blaze with auburn and Nakamaru wants him to stand right next to him because he can ask for that at least. At least…

Nakamaru doesn’t really ask.

So they’re playing a game; so he tries to get Ueda on his team and with Ueda, it’s not that difficult for Nakamaru to devolve to Ueda’s charming, precocious nine-year-old level, to want more than he can ever actually ask for. He didn’t mean it. He won’t remember what it is exactly he says, and he won’t think it’s that important because anyone could have said it. It’s an ironic statement more than anything and it was just a game after all.

_“Ueda isn’t good-looking.”_

But _he_ says it and for all hindsight is worth, Nakamaru really should have known better.

All Nakamaru really knows then is that Ueda gets this look on his face; the one he’s reserved for people who are callous enough to look him in the eye and rip him down a ladder rung, drop him right on his fragile edges. These very people about which a younger Nakamaru—a much more terrified of everything Nakamaru-- used to press his forehead into the dip of Ueda’s shoulder and say with vehemence he didn’t know he owned. “Just ignore those idiots.”

Nakamaru is that idiot and Ueda proceeds to ignore him.

By the time he realises what he’s done, it feels like too late. Ueda has a shroud around him. The concert goes on; the others are talking, laughing and Ueda sits on the steps, rejecting those bright loving lights and rejecting Nakamaru.

“You all right?”

Ueda stares at something beyond the crowd; beyond the shadow corners of the world outside. Something inside Nakamaru goes frozen with horror. And there’s a lot about someone close to you that you don’t see until they stop looking at you. And Nakamaru sees Ueda in full. The slope of his features; the glittering oath in his stare; the way his clothes drape over his delicate diamond-like frame. Ueda. Soft, bright, prickly and clear is whole and untouchable now in the moment where Nakamaru’s private apologies begin to spill.

“You know it’s all—it’s just for the game. It’s not really…”

No. This is loss. And he made it himself.

He would totally work to solve it right there. It should be simple; there’s a problem, so he looks for ways to fix it. And Nakamaru has no answers because he feels like the problem and that frustrates him more than anything.

Ueda’s leaving the stage, still not speaking to him, not touching him; not even looking at him and Nakamaru tears off his mic and calls at him as Ueda descends.

“Look, I didn’t think it would bother you that much. The others have said the exact same thing--”

Ueda interrupts him with a look; so far gone is the drawing presence and the warmth. And it scares Nakamaru too much that Ueda can switch off that easily. “Yeah,” he replies quietly; the undertone that makes Nakamaru’s whole world go dim. “But not you.”

In front of the thousands of prying eyes, Ueda shuts him out.

He’d once read that relationships work better if there’s an argument now and then, but this isn’t an argument; Ueda’s silence isn’t subject for debate. They could exchange words, but there are none and Nakamaru feels like he just needs to _find_ the right words to fix this.

By the second day where Ueda doesn’t return his calls, Nakamaru knows that even if he found those words, Ueda wouldn’t want to hear them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kame sits in the jimusho lobby with him in silence before he sighs, “I still haven’t picked up the pieces of the vase I broke.”

It’s been all of three days. And Nakamaru has already begun reading up on psychotic breaks. Seems only appropriate that he have an episode.

“Nakamaru?” Kame prompts, leaning over the stiff armchair.

He isn’t even dramatic enough to have a proper episode. He can’t even sit at home, listen to some GLAY and force a healthy cry over it. Or maybe write a song.

“Did you… hear what I said?” whispers Kame, plucking at his shirt sleeve.

“Why don’t you just _pick the goddamn pieces up_ and just be glad the pieces are still _there_!” Nakamaru snaps at him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That same evening, he sends a mail. A very base, undignified version of, “[ **Please. Can I at least see you?”**

At first he’s elated when his phone pings and the little envelope avatar begins to shake, but the words on his screen read, “[ **You don’t really want to see me. You never do.”** **]**

That’s just too many kinds of unfair. He calls Ueda’s phone for that because if he’s mailing, his phone sure as hell has got to be on.

He switched it off as soon as the mail was sent.

And Nakamaru can’t see Ueda.

Connection lost.

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a Wednesday when he does see him again. They’re prepped and rehearsed for a TV performance and Ueda is still doing his best impression of someone who doesn’t know Nakamaru.

But Nakamaru has thought about it. Three and a half days has him unhinging every written doorway that connects him to Reasons Why Ueda Should Talk to Him: A Study. And now he can’t even gird himself up to pretend to not care; can’t even be stable where it really counts. He spends most of the day either staring at him or pointedly trying not to.

Then their day is done and all that’s left is to pack up and head home. He notices Ueda’s still seated in front of the makeup mirror, shades on, bag packed and fist curled over the straps. Koki sends them a cheerful wave before he walks out, and Taguchi follows. Nakamaru stands there because Ueda raises his head and seemingly darts a look at him in the reflection—through sepia shades, spots Nakamaru staring and bows his head again.

The door shuts behind them.

Ueda gets to his feet, drops his bag and steps right up to him, holding out a folded piece of paper unsmilingly. Nakamaru still has no words and he tries to smile.

“Give this to Kame. I… found it a couple nights ago.”

Nakamaru hesitates, but he takes it, still searching Ueda’s dark stare behind glasses for some sign that he can start apologising again. He unfolds the paper. Ueda’s printing; messy and hurried as usual, reading **_amphoraftw.co.jp_**.

“Umm…” Nakamaru begins.

Ueda glances off toward the middle distance over Nakamaru’s right shoulder. “There’s a page for him to start his own blog, chat rooms and forums; collectors and enthusiasts hang out there and they’ll be excited to meet him.”

Nakamaru blinks down at the web address wordlessly. He literally has no idea what to say or _how_ to say what’s bubbling away inside him.

Ueda gives him a new brief glance and drops his gaze again. “Kame is his job. The only way he would connect is through validation because people with dull lives and hobbies need validation. A friend of mine told me that’s what the internet’s for anyway…”

“Thank… you,” Nakamaru says numbly.

That’s all there is. Ueda is going to walk out of the room and spend another week closing Nakamaru further out. Yet, Nakamaru can see him. He remembers Ueda’s expression when he says he’d never forgive him if he found a reason to give away any of what makes him happiest. He clings to the image of Ueda’s fatalistic smile when he realised that Nakamaru isn’t that type. For once, their connection is stark and stinging right between them and Nakamaru is terrified to realise that he’s missed something very crucial.

Ueda turns away to grab for his bag.

“You know I…” he begins and stops himself short because Ueda swivels, bag in hand. He pulls off his shades and resolutely glares at him. “Honestly, what can I say besides I’m _sorry_.”

Ueda’s glare deepens and he shakes his head as he makes for the door.

Nakamaru doesn’t think he’s ever moved this fast, but he races for the door and slips between Ueda and the door handle, hands raised in an actualised surrender. “Tell me what you want me to say! I don’t think I can last another minute of you not talking to me!”

Ueda has to look up to stare him down, but he sighs, “I don’t want you to say anything that you don’t mean.” He chews his lower lip in a sudden frustration. “Just grow some balls, quit dancing around and tell me what you _really_ think of me.”

This brings him up completely short and Nakamaru’s back hits the door, abruptly deflated from the unreserved challenge in Ueda’s gaze.

“I—but you _know_ what I think about you, don’t you?”

Ueda’s mouth twists in perfect exasperation. “Ugh, just get out of my way, Nakamaru.”

Nakamaru quickly spreads his arms and turns himself into something like a barricade, both hands pressed to either side of the doorway. “No, wait— I just, _why_ are you asking me this?“

“Forget it; this is getting us nowhere.”

Ueda’s never looked at him like that and Nakamaru knows if he lets him walk out of the room like this, he’ll never get a chance again. He grabs his shoulders, if only to hold him still and make sure he hears him clearly. “The truth is…” he starts and stops. Ueda is so close like this and a more base part of Nakamaru wants to retreat to a place where something like _this_ , holding him there isn’t a very uncomfortable revelation. “I think you’re way too … _beautiful_ a person to worry about what someone like me thinks about you.”

Ueda’s mouth falls open a little; arms still at his side and looking up at Nakamaru like he’s just performed an unnerving stunt. Nakamaru feels a bit ill suddenly.

Then Ueda grins. “Ha ha, _what_?” he exclaims.

Nakamaru lets him go like he’d just been burned. “Right,” he mutters. Not thinking and thinking everything at once. “Right,” he says again.

He doesn’t remember twisting around, opening the door and slipping out. He doesn’t remember racing down the hallway or how he got outside. He’s only conscious of his steps when he hits the parking lot and has the keys to his car out in his hand.

“Hey!”

He turns and is abruptly crowded right against the door of his car by a warm, angular frame and Ueda is still smiling up at him. “You forgot your bag,” he says, holding out Nakamaru’s rucksack. It’s cold out for mid-March and Nakamaru grabs his car door handle instead.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, afraid to move.

Ueda has the longest eyelashes and his mouth curves in a way that makes Nakamaru think of flavours; sweet and tart. Pomegranate seeds. “Don’t thank me yet,” Ueda says succinctly and he’s leaning up, hands coming to rest on the car’s windows on either side of him. He shifts up in one fluid movement and his lips press right on his jaw, nose brushes his cheek and Nakamaru can’t even swallow. Everything about Ueda is silk in those seconds and Nakamaru opens his mouth, meaning to breathe in. Ueda smiles against his jaw, wrists imprisoning him in place.

Nakamaru doesn’t breathe in; instead he inclines his head into more airless space, closer and damnably closer. He feels Ueda’s lips follow a line toward his mouth and just stop. Stop and hover there.

“What are you…doing?” Nakamaru gasps; some distant part of him is aware that he’s still gripping his car door handle.

Ueda huffs out soft laughter. It’s dark out, but the stark lights will make it so someone will see. “What are _you_ doing?” he shoots back quietly and refuses to move. Nakamaru can taste him with each breath and he can feel his muscles beginning to seize up from the effort not to move.

There’s a very pregnant pause and it only makes Nakamaru more aware of every arc and curve of Ueda’s body, fitted snugly over his whole front.

“Well?” Ueda whispers. “I don’t plan to make this easy for you.” And, damn him, he still won’t _move_.

Something in him snaps like a matchstick and for the second time within the space of twenty minutes, Nakamaru wriggles away, and wrenches his car door open enough that he can slip behind his wheel. He doesn’t dare look at Ueda, not when he can still feel his ears burning and he’s only now just begun breathing again.

He knows he’s wrong to do it, but he starts the car and pulls out anyway. Cue yet another reason for Ueda to torture him with more silence, but this…this will take the cake.

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

A cold shower.

Nakamaru hasn’t been brimming with good ideas, but in these seconds, it seems the right call. He’s in a panic and his skin is burning up from his toes to the roots of his hair. He can feel the impression of Ueda’s arms on either side of him; the razing brush of his lips and the branding curve of his mouth when he’d smiled his mocking charm right over his skin.

The water beats down on him, icy enough to have him trembling, but not enough to kill the cloy of shameless arousal slithering through his veins. His head is pounding and he’s almost sure if he doesn’t stop reliving that crazy little moment in the parking lot, his mind is probably going to detonate.

It takes a very fueled, freezing moment before Nakamaru realises the pounding isn’t in his head, but quite literally from his front door. He’s still shivering when he gets his robe on and pads hurriedly for the entrance hall.

When he opens it, Ueda still has his fist raised for another round and he’s glaring a massacre at him. He takes one look at Nakamaru and snaps, “I said I wasn’t going to make this easy for you.”

No preamble. Nakamaru has to let go of the doorknob because Ueda walks him right back into the middle of his genkan.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that…” he begins, but Ueda shoots him a very venomous look as he kicks off his boots.

“Yeah, you’re doing and saying a hell of a lot of things you don’t mean. So how about we try some blank honesty now, OK?”

Nakamaru is a little frightened. “Yeah, yeah OK.”

Ueda removes his jacket as he walks off into the living room, tossing it a bit furiously at Nakamaru’s sofa. He swivels around and looks at Nakamaru, his whole frame emitting a helpless electricity. “It’s all riddles with you and sometimes I don’t know if there’s some hint you want me to take or whether you’re just playing mind games. Either way, this thing—“ he gestures between the two of them. “ –this isn’t OK. You look at me like I’ve got all the answers to your life-long crisis, talk to me about not having the nerve to admit that you love me, _insult_ me just to get what you want, and then you sit there for the next few days, ogling me like _I’ve_ hurt you somehow. This. Isn’t. Fair.”

Well, if he puts it like that... Nakamaru opens his mouth to retort.

“And don’t you _dare_ tell me what you didn’t _mean_ to do or I’m really done with you this time.”

Nakamaru shakes his head. “I wasn’t…” This is all too reckless and Nakamaru hadn’t banked on an explosion. “Ueda, you can’t just come here and try to _make_ me—“

“Oh, there’s no way I’m making you do a damn thing.” Ueda’s hands are balled into fists and his usually voluptuous mouth is in a firm line. “I’m asking you to come right out and say it on your own. I’m not going to take jumps for you here and you’re going to have to learn to do this or leave me alone. I’ve been telling you this for _ages_!”

Ueda wants blank honesty and Nakamaru doesn’t have the words. His hair is still wet and he can feel a cold droplet slide down the back of his neck. Ueda’s cheeks are tinged pink and his eyes flash; he could literally walk out of Nakamaru’s life for good on this night. Yet, beyond that, all Nakamaru can think is how comforting it’d be to close the distance between them, reach out and bury his face in the dip of Ueda’s neck, to press himself so close that Ueda wouldn’t be able to do anything, but _feel_ what’s inside him.

So he does just that.

Ueda takes a halted breath, completely startled. Nakamaru snakes his arms right around him, ignoring the fact that he’s just in his robe and that the cold from outside has made Ueda feel almost icy and fragile. Still, the curve of his throat is warm where Nakamaru presses his cheek. “I’m sorry I’m so useless at this,” he sighs.

He feels Ueda soften and then shake with a silent laugh. And even that tremor has Nakamaru biting his lip because this has happened before in different ways, but the lingering vestige of the burn of his mouth only inches away makes Nakamaru quietly unable to hold still.

“So?” Ueda says, “What are you doing now?”

Nakamaru pulls his arms back and grips Ueda by the shoulders, aware that his hands are shaking. “I don’t know,” he says almost voicelessly, shaken beyond his wits but still half-laughing. “Waiting for an OK, maybe?”

Ueda’s fingers close around the belt of his robe, clutching him so they’re frame to frame in the middle of his living room. He then reaches up and grasps Nakamaru right under his jaw. “How’s this for an OK?” he demands, eyes glittering with a sudden and shameless intent.

Nakamaru leans forward so quick he practically crushes Ueda’s lips. It’s more than an oasis, finally getting to kiss him and Ueda yanks him closer the very moment he drags his tongue over Nakamaru’s lower lip. Nakamaru scrapes his fingers up his back, tripping over the bumps of his spine through his t-shirt and reaches for the line of his shoulder blades. Ueda’s fingers hold at his jaw and he presses his thumb in so Nakamaru opens his mouth wider, and Ueda makes it easy for him to arch his hips because he tugs him in and all Nakamaru is aware of suddenly is the line of Ueda’s cock, pressed to the zipper of his jeans and enough to feel right through the terry cloth of his robe.

Nakamaru experiences then, the most thrilling moment when he gets his fingers in Ueda’s hair and pulls his head back and Ueda aligns their hips, letting out a faint whimper and a gasp. He circles his hips slowly so that Nakamaru moans right over his lips and then grits his teeth, unable to stop himself rocking forward against him. It shouldn’t be this exciting because Nakamaru had never let himself take it this far in his mind, but Ueda is heat and striking him with new anticipation with just the way he _moves_.

“God, I didn’t know you wanted this,” he hisses when Ueda draws back, nipping at his lower lip with a soft ‘mmm’ sound that’s both rakish and desperate all at once.

Ueda’s eyes are hooded when he looks at him, and he slips his fingers just under the belt of his robe, making hard insistent circles along the line of his hips. “Then you’re a blind idiot. I’m going to suck you off.”

The non-sequitur reply surprises him so much he practically snorts and Ueda pushes him against the back of his sofa and is already tugging at the knot Nakamaru hadn’t done up tightly in the first place. Nakamaru almost topples because once Ueda slips his hands over his thighs, fingernails striping electricity, he’s completely gone. “Oh my god, right here?” he gasps.

Ueda pushes his robe open and slinks down to his knees. “Why not; I’ve got you where I want you and you keep running away.”

Nakamaru shuts his eyes because Ueda chooses then to start a bit of a nibbling trail along the inside of his right thigh. He grabs the back of the sofa and finds himself tipped back, legs spread. Ueda’s lips are wet and he snakes his hands upward, cupping along Nakamaru’s ass and running a hot wet tongue over his hip bone. “Tatsuya, please,” he begs. The lights of his living room are so stark and bright and he feels so exposed out here. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible Ueda’s looking at him like that.

Ueda does look up at him, though, trailing a hungry gaze right up Nakamaru’s whole body. He gives a thoughtful pause, before he gets to his feet. “Fine,” he acquiesces, leaning up along Nakamaru, and taking a careful and calculated bite at his collarbone. “You know I’m all about compromise.”

“No, you’re not,” he retorts but breaks off because Ueda’s twists him around, gripping him around the hips. If Nakamaru thought he, himself, was in a hurry, it’s nothing on the rate at which Ueda rushes him for his bedroom only to push him back into the bedclothes. Nakamaru sits up on his elbows when Ueda throws back the duvet and reaches for a sheet, biting at its edge before tearing it with some type of vicious glee.

“What the-- _HEY_!” Nakamaru cries.

Ueda sends him an irreprehensible look. “If you want to keep being a blind idiot, then I’ve no choice but to let you.”

“Umm,” Nakamaru says stoutly.

Ueda climbs on the bed in a predatory movement and makes no fuss about straddling him. He holds up a strip of Nakamaru’s cotton-grey bedsheet. The last thing Nakamaru sees is Ueda’s usual smile that usually means he’ll be apologising to someone in a moment. Then the cloth is places snugly right over his eyes and Ueda’s kissing him as he binds it behind his head, giving him no opportunity to complain because even the friction of Ueda’s jeans has him arching off the bed.

He’s wrapped in complete blackness, but it strikes Nakamaru the moment Ueda pushes him back on the mattress and starts to mouth down his chest that not being able to see has suddenly robbed him of his reservations. He reaches out blindly and Ueda chuckles, lips pausing just along the ridge of his lowest rib. He doesn’t bother raising his head from the mattress then, as he feels a ghost of a breath splash over his stomach before the rough scrape of Ueda’s tongue curves over his navel. Nakamaru doesn’t even know where to lean towards with Ueda’s palms now flowing along his sides, down his legs, pulling them up so his knees bend. He feels like a formless existence, floating under Ueda’s hands. He feels the impression of his knuckles over his thighs and then-- _god_ \-- the heat of his mouth, breathing lower and lower.

“Now you can be blind,” Ueda murmurs from somewhere near the hilt of his cock. “And I can still have you.”

It’s because he isn’t expecting it that he practically sobs, but Ueda’s tongue follows up the underside of his cock, a teasing lick that just barely makes contact, but is enough that Nakamaru has to grab at the torn sheet still half under him.

In moments, he’s wishing he could see because Ueda’s breathing is getting hotter and heavier and he says nothing as he scoots further back on him. He trips fingers over his knees and massages up his thighs, pressure points that almost hurt and Nakamaru is caught between bracing himself for the next touch—whenever it comes—and trying to hold himself together when Ueda does something with his tongue, slipping it along the slit and curving it in with a caustic breath like just the taste has him aroused.

When he feels Ueda’s lips close over him, Nakamaru breaks and murmurs a word without consonants.

Ueda pulls back. “What’s that?”

Nakamaru can feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and the prickles of want shuddering down his stomach. “Please, don’t stop.”

A smug sound and suddenly there’s heat all over his cock to the hilt and Nakamaru realises with a faint prayer that Ueda has his mouth open over him, but is holding off on closing his lips. He whines, fingers curling into the bedclothes again. The heat disappears and Nakamaru keens a sound he’s never made before in his life.

A laugh that’s as dark as the world around him right now. “You know, I bet if I asked you ‘who’s your daddy’ right about now—“

“Don’t you _dare_ ask me that!” Nakamaru barks, and the thought has him laughing with Ueda who seems to have paused to lay his silky head on Nakamaru’s stomach for a bit as they both convulse with abrupt giggles. He cuts off when Ueda’s hand strays near him once more and he’s blanketed in an abrupt ecstasy, going light-headed when Ueda’s hard fist closes over him.

“I really want to fuck you,” Ueda whispers at him, running another set of fingers along the inside of Nakamaru’s thigh. He shifts and seems to be reaching off for something before he presses what feels like a tube into Nakamaru’s palm. “I’m assuming that’s OK?”

Nakamaru can’t even make a sound, so he nods vigorously.

“Then get yourself ready for me.”

He’s never done this in front of someone before, but it feels like he could do anything like this; could do anything for Ueda right now. Not being able to see has him fumbling a bit, but he hears Ueda sit up and the zipper of his jeans go down with the rustling sound of his shirt slipping off hot skin. Nakamaru raises his knees and has to feel his own wet fingers along himself. He starts with one finger, already imagining how it’ll feel when Ueda does it and it has him rocking toward his own touch.

He feels the mattress sink down beside him as Ueda shifts over. “You look amazing, right now,” he murmurs.

Nakamaru bites his lip as he spreads his legs wide and he feels Ueda draw near, the tips of his hair raking over his leg and the burning heat of his mouth. He finally takes him in and Nakamaru cants his hips up, pressing his fingers deeper to stretching. Ueda’s lips stripe hungry lines up and down him and Nakamaru fucks himself deeper, stretching his legs and moaning at darkness.

Ueda speeds up, swallowing him harder and he groans a slow, languid sound, filling Nakamaru with shivers. He can hear his own choked sounds and Ueda splaying rough fingers along his chest as he sucks, letting Nakamaru strike the back of his throat. He spreads his fingers in himself and rocks with Ueda’s rhythm.

Just when he can feel it; that tickling from where his own fingers rake a wet line and he seizes up, Ueda lets go and grips him by the hips. He pulls Nakamaru over to him with ease and pulls the blindfold off. The light from the living room still bleeds into the room and blinds him, but all Nakamaru can see is him. His lips are deeply-red and his hair is a perfect mess from where Nakamaru must have grabbed him over and over. He leans over Nakamaru with the most beatific smile as he curves Nakamaru’s legs around him.

“I’d like it better when you can see me,” he says.

It’s like a dream, broader than anything he could come up with, but he’s practically delirious from it. Ueda presses his thighs to the backs of his, holding him steady and arched off the bed as he lifts himself in.

They’re one helpless form and Nakamaru’s ankles curve over the hard contour of Ueda’s back on his first thrust. Ueda fists the sheets by Nakamaru’s head when he presses deeper. Nakamaru feels impaled and completely wrecked from wanting him that as Ueda thrusts again, he grabs up his back, moaning like he’s never had it this good. They waited too long and it doesn’t last nearly as long as it feels. Ueda snaps his hips in, eclipsing Nakamaru’s moans with a harsh growl of his own. The angle pushes him right on a perfect spot in him and he feels even the contact of Ueda’s chest like raking heaven.

One hand on him has him spilling all over himself and Ueda works him all the harder, still rolling his hips forward in a stretch that’s like a wildfire. When Ueda comes, he says it softly, “Yuichi.” Vulnerable, almost frightened by the impact of it, he shudders inside him.

They go still and everything swoops back in as Ueda twitches over him, kissing up his throat and gasping for air.

Nakamaru is aware that he can finally take his time; can touch up angles and know spots and curves he only imagined before. “You know I love you, don’t you?” he asks in a voice he doesn’t recognise coming from himself.

Ueda’s fingers trace a line over his neck, feeling for something Nakamaru can’t see. “Of course I know,” he replies. “But it’s nice when you develop the nerve to say it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_~0~_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sofa in their dressing room allows enough room for two. There’s no cameras in here so Ueda comfortably rests his legs over Nakamaru’s, smiling down at his comic book. The way Nakamaru can see him is from an angle no one sees and knowing that Ueda would easily look up, sneaky looks over his comic book; well, that’s what makes him happiest.

“Isn’t this a good year?” Taguchi remarks, lounging in the couch opposite. “It’s only March, but I’ve had all these new experiences...” His eyes are fixed on his DS, but his smile is considerably obnoxious like he’s waiting for an answer.

Nakamaru looks at him. “I’m _retired_ , Taguchi.” No more psycho-analysing his bandmates if he can help it.

Taguchi doesn’t look up from his DS. “I don’t need any advice, Nakamaru-kun. I’ve got all I need, to be honest. I’m just saying it’s been a good year so far.”

Ueda hums his reply, darting a quick look at Nakamaru..

“Yeah, it’s a good year,” Nakamaru says doubtfully. “I’m pretty happy.”

Taguchi looks up, eyes turning to crescents from the full momentum of his grin. “I’m glad you’re happy too, Nakamaru-kun.”

Not even the condescending way he reports this can keep Nakamaru from returning the grin.

It’s not until Taguchi goes off for his turn on the set that Nakamaru notices Ueda with his face buried in his comic book, shaking with silent laughter.

“What?”

Ueda glances up at him; his eyes are teary and he’s still choking back his chortles. “ _Koki’s ‘daddy’…_?” he queries all sing-song and unmatched glee. He devolves into helpless giggles, high and gasping. “God, I’ve been waiting so long to talk to you about that…”

“ _What_?!” Nakamaru repeats emphatically.

Ueda wipes his eyes, regarding Nakamaru with complete mirth. “Oh come _on_. You’d have to be _really_ blind not to see that.”  



End file.
